


For Charity

by zimriya



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, I regret my life choices a lot sometimes, M/M, Stripping, but for charity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zimriya/pseuds/zimriya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So what we really need is a quick and easy, sure-fire way to make money,” says Jehan, from behind Enjolras. “How about a dating auction?”</p><p>“No,” says Enjolras, not looking up from his phone.</p><p>or Grantaire stripping for charity. Because that was what fandom needed post kittens, obviously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Charity

**Author's Note:**

> All the blame rests on this [video](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c_G-xmLug7g). ~~None of it rests with pullthedevildown. None.~~
> 
> So, all of you go blame Ramin Karimloo for the fact that I just wrote five thousand words of Grantaire stripping for charity.
> 
> Betaed by the lovely [decourfeynated](http://decourfeynated.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. All other mistakes are my own.

**For Charity**

\--

“So what we really need is a quick and easy, sure-fire way to make money,” says Jehan, from behind Enjolras. “How about a dating auction?”

“No,” says Enjolras, not looking up from his phone. The fingers in his hair falter, briefly, but when Enjolras turns tries to move to look up at him, Jehan doesn’t let him.

“Yes!” says Courfeyrac, slamming his hands down on one of the tables.

“No,” repeats Enjolras.

 “ _Please_?” says Courfeyrac.

“It is Valentine’s day,” admits Combeferre.

 “What have you got to lose?” says Bossuet.

“I think it could be fun,” adds Bahorel.

“People would certainly talk about it,” says Feuilly, dryly.

“It sounds dangerous,” worries Joly.

“I can get us the Musain,” puts in Musichetta. When Enjolras darts a quick glance at her, it’s to see her whispering in Joly’s ear.

“And if that fails, I know a guy,” says Eponine.

“We could always have it at my place,” says Cosette. “Papa wouldn’t mind.”

“Really?” says Marius. “He never seems to want to leave me alone whenever I’m over--”

“We’re not short on spaces,” says Eponine, loudly, over him. “So what’s the big deal?”

Enjolras lifts his head up from his phone--he’d stopped reading the webpage in front of him probably around the time Jehan started braiding his hair--and stares at all of them.

His friends stare back at him with bright eyes and wide smiles. Grantaire, surprisingly, has remained silent throughout the entire conversation, but when Enjolras turns to look at him, he takes a quick swig from the bottle in his hand and winks.

“Well,” says Enjolras, which is not a yes, but the group of them takes it to be one anyway.

“Awesome,” says Courfeyrac, getting to his feet. He grabs hold of Enjolras and Grantaire, hauling them both to their feet and herding them towards the door, where he pauses to point at Musichetta and Eponine. “Call your guy, get us a space--we’re going shopping!”

And then he proceeds to haul Enjolras and Grantaire out of the room with surprising strength.

\--

What follows are several terrifying minutes spent in a car with Courfeyrac and Grantaire, where Courfeyrac reveals that, “the only reason you’re here, Enjolras, is because you’d make me return everything if not,” and “the only reason you’re here, Grantaire, is because you once convinced Enjolras to dive into a recently unfrozen river with the rest of us.”

After that, Enjolras spends several terrifying hours inside a mall with Courfeyrac and Grantaire, where he comes to the conclusion that obviously he needs new friends.

He says this, sadly, somewhere around the fifth hour, standing awkwardly in a fabric store of sorts holding a pile of lace and pink.

“What?” says Courfeyrac, not looking up from where he and Grantaire are puzzling over fabric for the curtains. Enjolras hadn’t been quite sure why they needed curtains in the first place, but a quick call to Feuilly and Bahorel and finally Jehan had settled it.

“Nothing.”

“Okay,” says Courfeyrac. “But don’t think I don’t see you trying to dump the lace into that lady's cart. I paid good money for that lace, Enjolras--”

“We haven’t paid yet, though--”

“I fought women with nails for that lace, Enjolras!” says Courfeyrac, shrilly. “Don’t you dare!”

At his side, Grantaire looks like he’s laughing, but when Courfeyrac turns sharp eyes on him, he sobers quickly. “He did, indeed,” he tells Enjolras, nodding seriously.

Enjolras stares back at the two of them before sighing, again and better settling the fabric across his arms. “Fine,” he says. “But this had better make us money.”

Courfeyrac waves a careless arm, and points at yet another reel of velvet. “What do you think?” he asks Grantaire.

“It’s a bit cooler than I think we’re looking for,” says Grantaire, in his artist-voice. Enjolras is not the one who came up with that name, of course, but he can still use it. Because it is apt, somewhat, in describing the way Grantaire’s brow furrows, and his lips purse ever so slightly, and his eyes go calculating, when faced with color pallets or pieces or artwork or even, actually, midnight omelets. (And as Eponine, the one who had come up with the name during a particularly terrible game of drunken twister, liked to boast about the time she and Bahorel had hung a guy off of a bridge by his feet, Enjolras is not particularly keen on trying to question it.)

“How are we even paying for this?” he interjects, quickly, shaking his head and trying not to think about the way Grantaire’s artist-voice might feature in certain dreams.

“Hush!” Courfeyrac says.

“It’s not a ridiculous question,” points out Enjolras, feeling the beginning of a headache in the back of his temples.

“This one is warmer, though, right?” Courfeyrac tells Grantaire, who nods, before turning to point at Enjolras. “I had Combeferre write up a budget so hush.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth. “You did what?” he says.

“Combeferre,” says Courfeyrac. “Budget. We cannot spend more than--”  He breaks off to pull out a truly astonishingly large piece of paper--

“Courfeyrac, is that a map?” Grantaire tries ask. “Couldn’t you use a piece of scrap paper--”

“Shut up,” says Courfeyrac. “It was the only thing I had on hand and Combeferre talks quickly when you ask him things like ‘how much money can I spend on dating auction stuff before we start losing money’ over the phone.”

Grantaire pauses. “When was this?”

“You were in the bathroom,” says Courfeyrac.

“Um, why the map--?”

“What, you’ve never been on a road trip?” says Courfeyrac. He’s starting to look a little more frenzied in the eyes, and Enjolras starts to think that spending five hours in a mall is not only a bad idea, but a terrifying one. Also, he’s not sure if there’s really anyway for him to salvage the conversation.

He reaches out and takes the map from Courfeyrac before Grantaire can speak, anyway, but when he looks at it none of it makes much sense.  “This makes no sense,” he says, after a moment. “What does this even mean--?”

“I understand it!” says Courfeyrac. “But that’s not important! What’s important is--”

“The store is closing in five minutes,” says Grantaire. He appears at Enjolras’ side holding a bundle of what even Enjolras has to admit is artfully selected velvet. “By the way.”

Courfeyrac gives the velvet in Grantaire’s arms a quick look, before nodding. “Right,” he says, folding the map into small squares and putting it back into his pocket. “Give me that.” He takes the lace from Enjolras’ hand, and starts striding towards the front of the store.

Enjolras turns to look at Grantaire, who raises his eyebrows in turn, before following him.

On their way up to the counter, Courfeyrac puts down the lace, and Enjolras nearly sputters to a stop before Grantaire reaches out, takes his hand, and raises a hand to his lips.

“Wise,” Enjolras manages, somehow, and doesn’t go attempt to murder Courfeyrac.

It’s slightly harder to resist the urge, however, when they get back to their place and Combeferre reveals that he created no such budget. But be it that Courfeyrac somehow managed to convince their cashier to use discounts Enjolras hadn’t even heard of to get their price tag down to a reasonable amount--as he put it, “I’m pretty sure even _you_ can make this much money, Enjolras, and that’s even if you don’t smile”--he can’t really be bothered.

Also, when they get home, Eponine and Cosette drag Grantaire off to help them sew the curtains, and as it turns out? Watching Grantaire thread a needle with pursed lips and narrowed eyes is incredibly distracting. Not that Enjolras is distracted.

Not. At. All.

\--

“I regret this decision,” says Enjolras, on the day of the dress rehearsal. He pulls awkwardly at the tie Cosette had knotted around his neck and shuffles awkwardly on the edge of the catwalk. “Who even installed this catwalk?”

“R did,” says Bahorel, loudly, from behind his megaphone. Enjolras considers asking who gave Bahorel a megaphone, but is saved from doing so by Jehan, who wanders by in an equally well-cut suit and tie to take the megaphone from Bahorel.

“I helped,” says Feuilly, from Enjolras’ left. He’s the only one of them who seems to have forgone the suit jacket, and has the sleeves of his crisp white shirt rolled up. “But mostly it was Grantaire. Very handy with a hammer, that one.”

Enjolras swallows very hard and focuses instead on the flurry of movement around them. “Where is Grantaire, anyway?” he asks.

“Last I saw he was helping Cosette with the flowers for her hair,” Feuilly replies, instantly.

“Ah,” says Enjolras. He watches as Bossuet appears dragging a very terrified looking Marius, looking surprisingly well dressed in a velvet, blue suit. The full effect is somewhat ruined by the way he’s bright red in the face and can’t seem to form words.

“He’s okay,” says Bossuet, cheerfully. “He walked in on Musichetta changing, is all.”

Marius, if possible, seems to go even redder, and looks like he wants to the world to swallow him whole, but when Cosette and Grantaire emerge from the back and head in his direction, he manages something of a smile. Of course, when Musichetta and Joly emerge arm in arm a few moments later, any and all progress is rendered moot by the woman having the audacity to wink at him.

Cosette rolls her eyes, pretty as ever in a red dress with black tights and boots, and when she turns to whisper in Marius’ ears, Enjolras gets a glimpse of the intricate braiding at the back of her head.

“Grantaire did her hair?” he asks Feuilly, absently. Cosette finishes embarrassing Marius and takes a step back, and Enjolras’ head comes swinging back up to blink at Feuilly.

“Yep.”

“Huh.”

When he looks back, Grantaire is nowhere to be seen.

 “Why do we need a dress rehearsal, again?” Enjolras says, shaking his head briefly.

“Because!” shouts Courfeyrac from somewhere behind the curtain. “Now shut up! Some of us are trying to work!”

Enjolras walks the catwalk quietly and pulls back the curtain to reveal Courfeyrac, wearing a top hat and holding a rose between his teeth. He blinks. “What are you doing?” he says.

Courfeyrac spits the rose out. “Do you think the rose is a bit much?” he says, as Enjolras continues to gape at him.

Combeferre wanders by behind them, looking fabulous in a suit, and a few moments later Eponine comes chasing after him in dangerously high heels and a long, silver, slip of a dress that seems to be entirely swish. She reaches Combeferre in a few frantic clacks, before attempting to fix his bow-tie.

 “The rose is a bit much,” says Enjolras slowly.

Courfeyrac gives it something of a sour look, before sighing. “Well,” he says. “That’s okay.” He turns to face the rest of the group. “Now, are we all ready and pretty?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but the rest of them stand to attention. There is a chorus of ‘yes sir’s from along the catwalk.

“Good,” says Courfeyrac. “Now, Cosette’s father has very kindly volunteered to be our announcer, so we all have to be on our best behavior for the dress rehearsal.”

“I still don’t understand why we need the dress rehearsal,” says Enjolras.

Courfeyrac turns to glare at him. “For that,” he says. “You’re going first.”

Enjolras blinks. “What?”

“Alright, guys, places!” says Courfeyrac.

“Places!” echos Jehan, brandishing his clipboard and heading over to herd Enjorlas back behind the curtain.

“What does he mean I’m going first?” hisses Enjolras to Jehan as the lights dim and Cosette’s father starts awkwardly reading off the cue cards.

“Shh,” says Jehan, bringing a hand to his ear pierce.

“Also, where did you get an ear pierce?” continues Enjolras.

“And we’re live in three, two, one,” says Jehan, much quicker than Enjolras is expecting, and he takes hold of Enjolras’ tie to use it to pull him around. He pulls out a heart shaped name tag with the number one on it, and slaps it to Enjolras’ left breast pocket. “When the curtain goes you had better walk.”

“And our first participant is Enjolras,” says Valjean, tonelessly, and the curtain rises.

Enjolras startles, but manages somehow to school his features before walking awkwardly down the catwalk.

“Enjolras likes,” says Valjean, and frowns. “Long walks on the beach, poetry, and poking dead things with a stick.”

There’s a beat.

“I’m sorry, what?” says Enjolras, loudly, even as he can see Courfeyrac out of the corner of his eye waving at him frantically.

“Enjolras spends most of his time working,” continues Valjean, despite the fact that Courfeyrac has forgone subtlety and is in fact now gesturing wildly at the man as well. “To the point where he has, at times, forgotten important dates such as his own birthday.”

“That was one time,” protests Enjolras, right about the time Courfeyrac seems to say, “fuck it,” and darts out onto the catwalk.

Valjean appears to still be reading, though it is paining him. “Also, it is common belief that a good--” The man breaks off and clears his throat.

“Cosette, if you don’t make him stop I will tackle him!” cries Courfeyrac, desperately. He seems torn between running forward to do so, anyway, and the acidic stare Enjolras turns on him when he gets close.

“One step and I will kill you,” he tells Courfeyrac, and there is the sound of someone who sounds remarkably like Grantaire yelping in pain before the curtain seems to wobble worryingly.

“Cosette!” repeats Courfeyrac.

“--A good _fucking_ \--” says Valjean.

“Papa,” says Cosette, stepping forward, thankfully, and someone cues the lights back on.

A few moments pass, before Combeferre emerges from behind the curtain. “So when you said ‘turn in something to be read or else,’” he begins.

“You really meant or else,” finishes Eponine.

“I don’t know,” says Grantaire. He walks out rubbing at his right shoulder, and when Marius steps up next to him he narrows his eyes a little until Cosette smacks him on the same shoulder. “I think the ‘or else’ was for himself,” Grantaire finishes, glowering at her.

“The ‘or else’ isn’t important,” interject Courfeyrac. “I didn’t think any of you wouldn’t actually turn something in.”

There’s a beat.

“Does this mean we all have descriptions ala Enjolras’?” says Bahorel, slowly. “Because I’d like to see mine, actually.”

“And mine,” puts in Musichetta.

“Ditto,” says Eponine. “Do you think he has them on him?”

They group seems to advance towards Courfeyrac in one quick movement, and Courfeyrac glares at Enjolras. “See what you’ve done?” he says.

Enjolras raises both of his hands. “Sorry?” he says. “What was I supposed to have written?”

“Something for Valjean to read out for you,” Jehan tells him, kindly. “Your interest, hobbies, etc. Things people would want to know before deciding to date you.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras.

“Yeah, right,” says Bahorel. “All you need to do is make that face--” He breaks off to tilt his head at Enjolras, and Enjolras frowns at him.

“What?”

“Quick, R, come here.” Bahorel reaches out and grabs hold of Grantaire, who he drags into his arms. “Do something annoying.”

“Ow--Bahorel--what?” says Grantaire, fighting the grip Bahorel has on his shoulders and trying to twist out of his grip.

Bahorel doesn’t release him. “You know that face,” he says. “The one he makes when something pisses him off--the one that either means you’re dead or you’re not walking for a week.”

Courfeyrac chokes on his own breath and Joly very helpfully pats him on the back.

“What?” repeats Enjolras.

“Nothing,” says Grantaire, flushing slightly. “Nothing it all, Apollo, um.” He stops, looking self conscious, and Enjolras blinks, before the nickname seeps in.

He narrows his eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“See, that face!” cries Bahorel. “You should just make that face and you’re bound to make the most money.”

“What face?” Enjolras tries to say, but he’s not heard in the ensuing noise from the rest of the group.

“Come on, Enjolras, really?” Eponine is saying. “No way he makes the most money.”

“Absolutely,” agrees Feuilly. “I will.”

Everyone sans Enjolras and Grantaire shake their heads. “Nah,” says Bossuet. “I think we can all agree that the person who’ll make the most money is me. I am just that lucky.”

Musichetta pats him on the arm. “That’s sweet,” she says. “But I’m going to say the girls have it in the bag.”

Eponine reaches out to high five her, and Cosette makes an agreeable noise before draping an arm around both their shoulders.

 “You?” says Courfeyrac. “No, guys, come on, is this really a competition?”

Eponine crosses her arms. “What, you think it’s going to be you?”

“Obviously,” says Courfeyrac. “It’s not even fair for me to be doing this, really.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, and finally speaks up. “Is that so?” he says.

 “Yep,” says, Courfeyrac. “Now, again?”

Enjolras starts walking for the curtains again, slowly, and tries very hard not to think about the way Grantaire had seemed to size Courfeyrac up.

\--

“Don’t talk to me,” Enjolras tells Courfeyrac, when the other joins him at the ‘winners’ table, as they’re calling it.

Courfeyrac raises both of his hands, one of which is holding the ticket of the lucky lady who won him with more money than Enjolras would have thought reasonable, and settles into the chair across from him. “Hey, come on,” says Courfeyrac. “You made more than Eponine.”

Enjolras glowers up at Courfeyrac, and Eponine rolls her eyes at him. “You’re just jealous, Courfeyrac,” she tells him, from where she’s settled up against Cosette to watch the rest of the show. Marius is still somewhere backstage.

“And think of it this way,” Courfeyrac continues, draping an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders. “It’s for a good cause.”

Enjolras risks a glance over to the woman who won him, and then turns back to Courfeyrac. “I still hate you,” he tells him, but with less bite than before.

“Yeah, yeah,” says Courfeyrac. “You’re just angry I’ve beaten you all.”

“I don’t know, Courfeyrac,” says Marius, coming over to join them. He looks much less uncomfortable than he had at the dress rehearsal earlier, but he also has what looks like lipstick smudging his cheeks. “R might have you beat.”

Courfeyrac scoffs. “Yeah, right,” he says. “Like that’ll happen.”

“I don’t know,” says Cosette. She’s dragged Marius down into her lap so that she can rub the lipstick off of his cheek and press a quick kiss to his mouth. “He might surprise you.”

Courfeyrac remains unconvinced, and Enjolras is inclined to agree with him, until the lights go dim, Valjean reads out Grantaire’s number, and music starts playing.

“Is that--” Enjolras says, finally.

“I want to say no, but--” agrees Courfeyrac, sounding at a loss. “But, um.”

On stage, Grantaire emerges, wearing the same suit from before and a wide, terrifying grin.

Enjolras blinks.  “What is he--?” he starts to say, which is when things get weird.

Namely, the loud pounding beat of the music coalesces into something familiar--and really, Enjolras thinks, _Lady Marmalade,_ Grantaire, _really_?--and Grantaire starts stripping.

Or--

No, he’s actually stripping. The coat goes first, button by button, as Valjean sighs his way through what is a surprisingly well written description of Grantaire’s many habits.

“Grantaire boxes?” Enjolras asks Courfeyrac.

“Shh,” says Courfeyrac.

But talents aside, Grantaire is actually stripping. There’s--there’s absolutely no other word for what Grantaire is doing, and while Enjolras isn’t about to argue that he cleans up well when put in a full three piece suit and tie, watching all those layers disappear is somehow far more pleasing to watch. Not that Enjolras is watching. Not that Enjolras finds it all that pleasing. Not that--

 _Fuck_.

Grantaire has worked his way down to the buttons of the crisp, white, dress shirt he borrowed from Combeferre. The suit jacket and waistcoat are somewhere in the audience, Valjean has finished reading out Grantaire’s impressive list of skills, and the betting is starting.

It takes them no time to get close to Courfeyrac’s ending amount, and the man in question tightens his grip on Enjolras’ shoulders as they gets closer and closer to the sum.

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras protests, squirming free of his friend’s grip to glare at him.

“ _Shh_ ,” repeats Courfeyrac, eyes trained on Grantaire.

Enjolras follows his line of sight even though he should not, to find that Grantaire has somehow gotten rid of the shirt, but not the tie. It falls around his neck loosely, begging to be pulled taut and used as a leash, and when the man turns, slightly to meet Enjolras’ eyes, Enjolras finds he cannot breathe.

Curling along Grantaire’s arms are tattoos, stories that Bahorel and Feuilly and Eponine probably know, but are foreign to Enjolras. There’s a sun, tiny and insignificant somewhere around his collar bone, and when he turns, slightly, Enjolras can see a bird just under his left arm gazing up at it. On his back there are the whisper of wings--done in some odd mix of light colors that make it hard for them to be seen at this distance, and at the edge of his pants, across his hipbones, are words.

Enjolras has to suck in a breath, then, because Grantaire has started walking his fingers down his torso towards the button and zip of his pants, and the amount of money being shouted into the room breaks Courfeyrac’s record.

“Damn,” says Courfeyrac. “That has to be cheating, though, I mean, as soon as you start taking your clothes off you’re going to attract the crazy people with money.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes. “What do you mean?” he says, focusing very hard on Courfeyrac so as to avoid watching Grantaire slide the dress pants down his legs, on to stop and bend over slowly to deal with his shoelaces.

“I mean, for example, look at this guy,” says Courfeyrac, pointing to a well dressed man in the corner shouting out dollar amounts intermittently. “Tell me he’s not old enough to be R’s father.”

Now that Enjolras thinks about it, that’s actually true. The man in question is also staring at Grantaire’s ass in a way that leaves something of a bad taste in his mouth. The entire room is doing that, actually, and it’s making Enjolras’ skin crawl.

“And, her,” continues Courfeyrac, gesturing at one of the screaming girls in the front. 

Enjolras’ head snaps around to look.

“That’s the one who almost won you,” continues Courfeyrac.

Enjolras remembers that, vividly, because when the girl had lost, she’d given him a terrifying look and sat down heavily. She’s also staring at Grantaire, who has graduated from shoelaces and is instead in the process of toeing off his pants. Enjolras is not thinking about the underwear he’s wearing, but his brain, very helpfully, points out that it has French flags all over it.

“But I’m probably being ridiculous, actually, so, um,” says Courfeyrac, frowning, as Enjolras gets to his feet. “Enjolras? What are you doing?”

Enjolras has no idea what he’s doing, actually, but the uncomfortable little knot in his stomach refuses to go away and his hands are so very tightly curled into fists that they hurt.

“Enjolras?” says Courfeyrac, slowly. “Um--”

The tall man from before makes an offer that briefly hushes the crowd, and Grantaire--Grantaire fucking winks at the man, walking slowly up the catwalk towards his table.

“Five million dollars!” shouts Enjolras, frantically, before he can stop himself. The entire room hushes and turns to stare collectively at Enjolras.

Grantaire’s mouth falls open. Someone that sounds very much like Combeferre makes some sort of horrible laughing-crying in the background, before someone that sounds very much like Eponine hushes him.

At his side, Courfeyrac leans up to whisper. “You don’t have five million dollars,” he begins. “I don’t think any of us here have five million dollars. If we did, why would be auctioning ourselves off for money.”

“Not helping,” Enjolras says out of the corner of his mouth while maintaining something of a smile towards the staring crowd.

“The point is you don’t have five million dollars,” Courfeyrac continues. “Why did you even pick five million dollars--”

“Four hundred dollars, I mean,” Enjolras says, slightly less loudly, but no less firmly, and refuses to look away from Valjean’s face until the man nods and says, “Sold.”

Jehan and Musichetta have appeared on either side of Grantaire with a robe and Enjolras very slowly sits back down.

“Wow,” says Courfeyrac. “Wow, okay.”

On stage, Musichetta with Joly and Bossuet on each arm; she pulls them both in for a quick kiss, before sending them off with a wink.

As Valjean starts to speak into the microphone, Grantaire appears looking slightly sheepish and a little bit wary to sink into the chair next to Courfeyrac, wearing loose sweats and a threadbare t-shirt. Now that he knows they exist, the little hints of tattoo peak out like flashing, neon signs. “Hey,” says Grantaire, cautiously.

“So I was all set to be angry at you for beating me,” says Courfeyrac, seemingly unconcerned. “But then, you’ve won me a lot of money so I really can’t be.”

“Shut up,” says Combeferre, from behind them, but he leans up to give Courfeyrac a handful of bills anyway.

“You bet on us?” says Grantaire, sounding exasperated.

“Not you, specifically,” says Courfeyrac, as Feuilly and Bahorel make their way over with their own wallets. “On Enjolras.”

Enjolras opens and closes his mouth a few times, before getting to his feet, flushing, and heading for the door.

“Oh, Enjolras,” calls Courfeyrac, after him.

“Don’t talk to me,” says Enjolras, not looking back, before pushing his way through the crowd.

He steps out into the cool of night, breathing hard, to lean against the brick wall of the building. “Fuck,” he says, loudly, watching his breath mist in air before him. “Fuck.”

“That bad?” says Grantaire, from behind him. He comes to stand next to Enjolras leaning up against the wall, and crosses his arms.

“Aren’t you cold?” says Enjolras, instead of answering the question. He shoots the fast appearing Goosebumps on Grantaire’s skin a narrow look.

“No,” Grantaire lies, grinning. “Are you?”

“Why?” says Enjolras. “Are you doing to take your shirt off and give it to me?”

There’s something of an awkward pause.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says finally. “That was mean.”

“Yes,” agrees Grantaire. “But not untrue.” He reaches down to grab the bottom hem of his shirt and tug, and Enjolras starts.

“Don’t,” he says, reaching out to catch Grantaire’s hands in his own and nearly flinches at how scorching hot the skin of Grantaire’s waist is. His fingers end up brushing the loops and whorls of writing on his hipbones, and he frowns. “Is that Latin?”

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, not looking around from their points of contact. “Jehan wrote it for me.”

“Do you know what it says?”

Grantaire’s eyes flick up to meet Enjolras’. They are very, very blue. “Yes,” says Grantaire, sounding amused. “Of course I do.” He pauses. “What? Did you think I’d get something tattooed onto my body without knowing what it said?” He angles them a little bit so that one hip is leaning against the wall, and Enjolras gets a mouthful of Grantaire’s next exhale. “Those things are permanent, Apollo,” Grantaire tells him, leaning into to breath against the shell of his ear, like he’s telling him a secret.

Enjolras flinches, suddenly way too hot despite the cold, and steps away so that he’s no longer holding Grantaire by the hips. “I know _that_ ,” he says, sounding childish even to his own ears.

“Alright,” says Grantaire, grinning at him. “Do you want to know what it says?”

“No,” says Enjolras. _Yes,_ means Enjolras.

Grantaire looks at him, carefully, before stepping back into his personal space. “Or maybe,” he says, with purpose. “Would you like to find out what they taste like--” He pauses no more than a hair’s breadth away from Enjolras’ lips to flick his eyes down. “Enjolras.”

Enjolras, shudders, briefly, and pauses to think to himself _oh, that’s what that was_. He closes his eyes when Grantaire leans that inch or two more to press the faintest of kisses to his mouth. “You’re rather presumptuous this evening,” he says, tightly, eyes still closed. “Are you drunk.”

“Not on what you think,” says Grantaire, not moving back.

Enjolras slots open his eyes to frown at him. “On what, then?”

“On you,” says Grantaire, incredibly seriously and with entirely too much truth, that Enjolras has to laugh.

“That--” he starts to say. “That is ridiculous--you actually _said_ that--”

“Shut up, you,” Grantaire tells him, but he’s grinning too, and he reaches out almost tentatively to wind his arms around Enjolras’ neck. “I am confessing my eternal love for you.”

“Right,” says Enjolras. “After performing what was basically a strip tease for all of our friends and also some complete strangers. I can see how much I mean to you.”

“Hey, you paid good money for this,” says Grantaire, pulling back a hand to gesture at himself. “Even put Courfeyrac to shame.”

Enjolras reaches out to catch his hand in his own and bring it to his lips, briefly, before settling it back around his neck. He weaves his own hands behind Grantaire’s back, pulling their bodies snug.

“You tried to waste five million dollars on me,” continues Grantaire. “Five million dollars that you do not have.”

“Mmm,” Enjolras says. “But to be fair, you had just removed all of your clothing in order to win a bet.”

“True,” admits Grantaire. “There really is no way to come back from that.”

Enjolras traces a line with his thumbs along the edge of Grantaire’s pants with just enough to pressure to make Grantaire shudder against him. “There really isn’t,” Enjolras agrees.

“I don’t know,” says Grantaire leaning back in close again. “It got me a date with you, didn’t it?”

Enjolras blinks back at him for a very long moment, before smiling. “Yes,” he says. “It really did.”

And when Grantaire starts to laugh at him, like he can’t quite believe his luck, Enjolras leans in to kiss him.

And he keeps kissing him, gently, as the rest of their friends wander out of the Musain in search of them.

\--

The fundraiser is a universal success, and they decide that maybe they’ll make it an annual thing; Grantaire, however, is very firmly not allowed to participate ever again.

(But that’s okay, actually, since Enjolras isn’t either.)

\--

End.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://zimriya.tumblr.com/).


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